


i hope you blink before i do

by BlackBat09



Category: Batman (Comics), Deathstroke the Terminator (Comics), Teen Titans (Animated Series), Teen Titans: The Judas Contract (2017)
Genre: Blood and Injury, Disembowelment, Implied/Referenced Incest, Jason Todd is Red X, Jealousy, Knifeplay, M/M, Mutual Pining, Possessive Behavior, Suicidal Thoughts, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unhealthy Relationships, Woundplay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-07
Updated: 2019-05-07
Packaged: 2020-02-27 20:48:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,038
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18746839
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlackBat09/pseuds/BlackBat09
Summary: i hope i never get soberIf Slade is drowning, Jason’s coming down with him.





	i hope you blink before i do

**Author's Note:**

  * For [likeabomb](https://archiveofourown.org/users/likeabomb/gifts).



> sooo. this is inspired by a multitude of canons as well as an rp universe that i’ve referenced a few times, but the basic premise is:
> 
> after coming back from the dead, Jason becomes Red X. he meets Slade, who, after being thrown in a Lazarus Pit once, recognizes the signs of Pit madness in Jason and offers mutually beneficial sessions for them to work out their bloodlust, which leads to them feeling things. 
> 
> they’re both dumbasses who don’t know how to communicate, though, so they’re just mean to each other.
> 
> title from No Children by The Mountain Goats

A soft exhale accompanies the drag of Slade’s knife, muscles relaxing under split skin, and he looks over the scene with a critical eye. Green eyes flutter shut and he watches chipped black nails uncurl from the sheets, lips parted ever so slightly.

It’s the kind of serene image that Slade rarely gets a glimpse of, evoking softness he hasn’t felt in years.

It won’t do at all.

His fingers dig into the edge of the most recent cut, blood welling up as he presses and pulls, relishing in the hiss of pain it earns, the way soft flesh reacts to his touches and grows tense again. It’s better like this, he tells himself, more enjoyable.

Jason looks less thrilled, eyes flashing as he glares, getting only a slight smirk in return.

“Pay attention, little bird,” Slade reprimands, pinching the edge of the cut and tugging, threatening to pull the skin from his muscles. “I’m not your boyfriend. You don’t get to zone out and pretend you’re fucking around with someone else when you’re with me.”

“God, fuck you-” His voice is strained, muffling a ragged yell when Slade presses his thumbnail into the exposed pink of his chest. “Alright, alright, I get it! Get your nasty fucking fingernails out of my skin before I get an infection, jackass. We don’t all heal like you.”

“You could.” He trails off at Jason’s scowl, fighting to keep the smirk on his face.

“Yeah, cuz we saw how well that went last time.” Slade remembers, vividly, the drug he’d procured to give Jason a temporary healing factor for one of their sessions, how a useful idea had quickly taken a turn for the worse as the burn of his flesh knitting itself back together had left Jason wracked with memories of the Pit. They’d had to stop as Jason sobbed, Slade leaving the kid to deal with it alone as he tried to understand why Jason’s tears made him so unsteady.

He knows why, now. “Not my fault you couldn’t handle it.”

He expects the glare Jason gives him, ignores it, instead looking over the canvas of his body to find a spot to cut. Jason’s left pectoral isn’t too messy, and Slade does love the idea of leaving a mark right over his heart, like a target, so he does, diagonally from armpit to sternum across his pec. Jason’s jaw jumps, but only after Slade’s done; he knows better than to flinch during, that it’ll ruin the lines and make it hurt more.

“Now, question is, do I make this an X to keep with your theme,” Slade purrs, tilting the knife to mime a cross stroke, “or do I leave a little reminder to Arrow who you come to when he pisses you off?” He’s fond of the latter, honestly, a circle bisected by a line to evoke his mask.

If Slade had his way more often, he’d leave it all over Jason’s body.

“Keep talking about him and I’m gonna fucking gut you,” Jason snarls, and Slade just blinks at him, unperturbed.

“Promise?”

Nothing in Jason’s voice or their past makes Slade doubt the statement; just because the wood is clean doesn’t mean Slade can’t remember the stain of blood on Jason’s floor from sessions ago. It’s a favorite to rub one out to, the well-remembered feeling of Jason’s blade sinking into his belly, the spill of steaming-warm intestines and blood across the floor as Slade fell to his knees, and that wild look on Jason’s face, full of relief.

Release.

He misses that look. Jason’s been buttoned up tight since that damn redhead came around, became part of his life. Slade hates Harper with the sort of enmity reserved for very few people in his life, but the man has a daughter, one he’s good to, one whose mother shouldn’t have a hand in raising her, and probably wouldn’t, even with the archer dead, so he gets to live.

“Does he know you come to me, little bird?”

There’s enough blades in the small apartment that asking comes with the hazard of Jason following through on his threat, but instead the kid just glares, stark red lines oozing over tense muscles. “Of course. He knows about the deal.”

“Really.” Slade hates this. His words taste like ash and he can feel his temper rising. “And what is this deal?”

“You and I keep doing this, you leave the others alone.”

Of course.

Months ago, when Jason had tried backing out, Slade admits he went a little far to manipulate him back into their sessions. Threatened Dick. Threatened Tim. Even hinted at hurting the littlest one. He knows it was fucked up, but he needs Jason, and Jason needs him.

Jason wants him, the stubborn brat.

“When are you going to cut the shit, X?” he asks coldly, blade forgotten.

“‘Scuse me?” He looks bewildered, blinking at Slade as he clarifies.

“When are you going to admit this isn’t some obligation? We both know you want this, and if you weren’t so damn stubborn, you’d enjoy bouncing on my cock just as much as you do letting me cut you up.”

Jason’s whole face darkens, the unholy green of his eyes seeming to shine as he sneers, mean. It’s obvious Slade’s crossed a line he shouldn’t have, but he doesn’t care anymore. The lie has grown exhausting.

“Maybe when you admit I’m a stand-in,” Jason spits.

He’s not really going to go there.

“Come on, old man, we all know you’d rather have Nightwing on the end of your cock and your blade.”

He is. Of course he is.

He deepens his voice, makes it smoother than his own rough cadence, until it’s his brother coming from his mouth. “Slade, you bastard! I have daddy issues with Batman that I can’t resolve unless you choke me! You’re a cruel, unfeeling monster, so you don’t care if I say his name while I come, do you?”

Slade hates them, the accusations Jason throws at him, not a damn one of them true, because he knows Jason believes them. He knows Jason compares himself to Dick and sees only failings, and he hates that Jason honestly thinks Slade does the same.

He’s not sure what he thinks a blade against Jason’s neck will do, probably desperately hoping it’ll shut him up, snarling as it bobs against Jason’s Adam’s apple, a shallow line working its way into the thin skin as Jason stares back, unflinching.

His eyes glow unearthly, the same acidic green as the Pit, casting shadows across the cruel mockery of a grin that he flashes at Slade and painting his whole face in a sickly light, almost demented. It’s unnerving, like the whole situation already wasn’t bad enough without it. Slade’s seen the Pit himself, but he has to wonder what Jason saw, what it did to him, to make him like this, or if Slade’s own healing just spared him the madness Jason teeters on the edge of.

Sometimes it keeps Slade up at night to think about what Jason’s been through.

“Do it, Wilson. Fucking do it.”

It’s a challenge, the room still as death as they stare each other down, burning green eyes against cold blue until Slade pulls his blade back, setting it on Jason’s covers with a hard look.

“I’ve already told you I won’t indulge your death wish, Jason.”

His name seems to break the spell, blinking away the unearthly glow of his eyes and turning his grin to a fierce scowl before he tries to shove Slade away, shoulders drawing up near his ears. Slade lets himself be moved out of Jason’s space, gives him the room to stand and cross the tiny apartment to his bathroom, watching him with an impassive mask.

“And I still don’t know why you give a damn,” Jason mutters, knowing full well Slade can hear him no matter how lowly he speaks.

Some days, after some of their talks, Slade doesn’t know why he cares, either. And yet he always remembers in moments like these, quiet and raw, the air between them heavy with tension.

He has to remember how to breathe, too. “Why do you think I give a damn, little bird?”

The conversation pauses for the sound of Jason sorting through the cabinets, the brief rush of the faucet and a slight hiss of pain.

“It costs extra to take a knife to a hooker.”

It’s hard to decide whether Slade would rather punch Jason or hold him. That’s probably why they’re like this.

“You think I give a shit about money?”

Jason exits the bathroom with his torso clean of blood, gauze and tape in hand, a brow raised. “You’re old. You guys are cheapskates.”

Shitty brat.

Slade moves to take the supplies from Jason, earning a sneer as the kid refuses to let go, leaving them at a stalemate until someone relents. Unsurprisingly, it’s Jason: still bleeding and probably teetering on the edge of a headspace Slade refused to let him slip into completely, he doesn’t have the energy to make everything a fight like he usually does. He’s still scowling as he sits on the edge of his bed to let Slade look him over, eyes stubbornly fixed on his lap. Suppressing a sigh, Slade pulls up Jason’s desk chair and gets to work, covering the cuts and gently taping down pads of gauze.

“After everything I’ve gotten you through,” he begins softly. Jason tenses.

They both remember the fight, Jason clumsy and upset, lashing out like an injured animal until Slade subdued him for his own good. Slade remembers clearly how Jason had slumped in his hold and sobbed, overwhelmed by the feeling of wrongness in his own skin after how the Pit had changed him, and explaining the concept of dysmorphia to him to show him it wasn’t a failing on his part.

“After everything,” Slade pauses, doubles down, “After everything you’ve seen me through.”

Klarion’s faux-zombie plague had been hard on everyone, but the Witch-Boy had a bone to pick with Slade, one he’d picked with a scene straight from Slade’s nightmares. Grant’s risen corpse had dogged him for hours until the Bat caught up to them and took Grant away, putting him back to rest for Slade to visit a few days later, Jason standing at his side at Grant’s grave.

“You still think I’m here because you bear a passing resemblance to your brother?” he asks, genuinely wanting to know if Jason’s that unaware. Slade’s hands linger against his skin when the cuts are all covered, the touch urging him to reconsider, to see, but Jason just grabs Slade’s wrists and removes his hands, not looking up.

“I don’t know why you’re here. But you need to go.”

It can’t be stressed enough how much Slade hates this. He hates Jason’s pain and his doubt. He hates the insecurity he tries to hide, and he hates Bruce fucking Wayne for whatever he did to Jason to leave him this destroyed.

He hates that he can’t fix it.

He hates that Jason won’t even let him try.

“Jason, you shouldn’t be alone-“

“Get out before I make you, Wilson,” he cuts in, and Slade knows he’d try, even though he shouldn’t, not with the risk of pulling the cuts on his chest open wide. He knows Jason has little regard for his body and his health: they wouldn’t be here in the first place if he cared about himself.

It’ll be bad no matter what he does, but maybe, just maybe, listening to Jason will make the kid hate Slade less the next go around.

Slade stands, collecting the empty gauze packaging and the medical tape, trashing the former and putting away the latter before he grabs his coat from the back of Jason’s chair, slipping on his boots by the front door. None of him wants to leave, hesitating at the door handle before he finally opens it. “I’ll see you around, little bird.”

“Whatever.”

It takes every ounce of self-control to keep walking away when he hears Jason’s breath hitch, the door falling shut behind him as the kid breaks down and cries.

**Author's Note:**

> find me at blackbat16 on tumblr, comments are love!


End file.
